


Come Ashore, My Seafaring Lover

by Kisleth



Series: Lights on the Water [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Nautical, Deep-Sea Fishing, Fluff, Lighthouses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisleth/pseuds/Kisleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep-sea fishing/lighthouse AU. It's a lot easier to have a heart-to-heart when you don't have to face the other person. For both Phil and Clint, it's always been so much easier to talk without actually talking. Now that Phil's on land and in front of Clint and after what they'd put in their letters, will they finally talk about how they feel?</p><p>Probably not. They're both loners and have a slower, subtler, way of doing things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Ashore, My Seafaring Lover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlyKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/gifts).



> Thank you to my lovely beta, [BonitaBreezy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BonitaBreezy/)
> 
> This is a birthday gift for the darling AlyKat, since she wrote something for mine. I'm four days early, but she was two days early for me. Here you go, darling. I hope you love it!

The sky overhead is dark with a threat of rain that has been lingering all through the night. Clint knows because he’s been watching the sky carefully since the sun set while his radio sits next to him, silent. Phil’s away, returning to the mainland elsewhere to get a better price for his fish. (Clint’s town is so small, they couldn’t possibly pay him for all of it. It sucks that he can’t just come in immediately, but Clint’s a big boy Wickie and can handle the silence even when he doesn’t want to.)

He still goes to the shore in the evenings to stick his hand into the water, even though it’s so _cold_ it almost feels sharp. Nothing has the power to make him stop doing it, even when he has to alternate hands, swearing at tingling burn from his numbing fingers as he tucks his hand under his armpit to warm it.

He has no way of telling if Phil is doing it too, he hasn’t been able to hear from him in too long (but even a day is too long for him now), but that isn’t going to stop him. It’ll be tradition, he’ll even do it if Phil is here, next to him. Knowing his luck, he’ll chicken out trying to hold Phil’s hand for real and have to do it through the ocean in person. Natasha would get a kick out of that.

Clint eyes the stormy skies and hesitantly sets up the light to run without him. He drags the radio to the cot by the deck door and lays down for a brief nap. He’ll wake up to the alarm set for only two hours from then or any chatter on the radio itself. He can’t let those he protects be alone for long even though he can feel how desperate his body is for rest.

* * *

 

No one calls and Clint manages to get two whole hours of sleep. He’s, frankly, impressed with himself for managing that long but it helps that if he is tired enough then he can fall into a deep sleep within a few minutes.

Peering outside, the world is still dark and overcast, but the ground is as dry as it can be so close to the ocean. The air pressure is starting to give Clint a headache and he wishes that the skies would just open up pour down on them. He bundles up in his favorite quilt that often can be found in the watchroom. (It’s an evening seascape that he’d gotten a local lady to make him after his first time meeting Phil. Taking up the bottom right corner—nearly a fifth of the blanket itself—is Phil’s boat. Her name is clearly scripted exactly where it is in real life.)

Shuffling downstairs, Clint pokes through the kitchen to make a list of things he’ll need to get. He doesn’t like the look of the skies and he might have to hole up in the Light for a couple days, so he might as well stock up on food and make something he can stretch out for several days. Something that is fast to heat up and eat.

List in hand, Clint carefully folds the blanket and heads out to market, the ingredients for a thick fish chowder in the forefront of his mind.

* * *

 

As he comes around the house from where he parked with his grocery bag in hand, he spots two things simultaneously. One, the _Triskelion_ is in at dock down the way, and two, Phil is sitting on his steps. A blinding grin pulls across his face and he can see the same (or, well, Phil’s small and gentle equivalent) on the other man’s face. He shifts his bag to the other arm as he nears enough to reach for his fisherman and pull him into a hug.  His nose buries into Phil’s collar to inhale brine and Old Spice. “You’re earlier than early, this time.” He allows himself this indulgence. They’d hugged when Phil left, so it should be alright for a hug now.

Phil’s return hug is brief and he shrugs, taking Clint’s key out of his hand to unlock the door. It’s not the first time he’s done it and he remembers just how to jiggle the key even after so many months away. Clint wants to cling for the first several minutes together if he could get away with it. If only Phil would allow him. He’d always let go before Phil gets too restless, he can see it in the way the older man holds himself sometimes when it’s nearing the right time for the older man to head back out to sea. “Some greenies were out, they must have chased the fish to my nets.”

After putting the groceries away with quips of, “must be your fish I bought.” “Thanks for your contribution,” Clint turns to Phil with a soft grin. “How long do I get you for?” He leans against the counter and wishes he had the bravery to reach out for Phil’s hands.

“Couple weeks, most of it will be cleaning up the _Triskelion_.” He’d have more time to spend with Clint if he helped take care of it, but Clint knows that Phil knows he has the Light to watch over and nothing could truly pry him away from his job and responsibility. Clint hopes it’s something that Phil likes about him. He opens his mouth to maybe say as much but Phil chivvies him toward the bedroom. It becomes clear that Phil had heard his jaw crack with the last yawn when the fisherman picks up the blanket, as if knowing that Clint rarely sleeps without it.

The room is the same whitewashed walls of worn wood as the rest of the house, with periwinkle driftwood shutters. Twilight blues and purples make up the braided rugs to either side of the full bed, matching half of the patchwork quilt that Phil is now spreading on the bed for Clint. It’s sweet and domestic and Clint wonders if he’s still dreaming.

At Phil’s insistent eyebrow raise, Clint kicks his shoes off and takes off his jeans, folding them over the back of the chair at his desk. He crawls into bed and looks over at Phil almost expectantly even though he has no idea as to what’s coming next. To his surprise Phil takes off his boots and climbs on top of the covers. He rolls over and settles down as he faces Phil. Cautiously he reaches out and when he panics a little and chickens out, Phil is the one to close the gap and tangle their fingers together.

“Sleep,” Phil tells him. He doesn’t want to, knowing that he’ll wake up alone in the bed and missing Phil like a hole in his chest. There can’t be any way that Phil would actually stay—if he were even really there.

He does it anyway.

* * *

 

It’s to his surprise that when he wakes there are lips brushing faintly against the nape of his neck. He hums softly as warm, moist breath flutters over the short hairs on the back of his neck. He wants to stretch from the warm cocoon he’s bundled himself into because he’s huddled tight but something tells him not to move too much. Sleepily, he shifts away slowly and turns to face Phil. The other opens his eyes and rewards Clint with a fond, warm gaze. “Hey, you.” His voice is a little rough from sleep.

This is perfect. All kinds of perfect. Clint wants to do this for every morning that he could possibly ever have for the rest of his life and just as all that hope builds up it dawns on him that even if Phil wants this too... those drowsy, snuggly mornings will be limited and sometimes far and few between. Clint won’t leave his job for it and neither will Phil.

It won’t be because Clint might not love Phil enough (and who is he kidding, of course he’s in love with his Loner). It could never be that and while others before Phil could never understand, Clint knows that _he_ would. What Clint does is important and as much of Clint as his eyes are blue and his hair is sandy blonde. They both have reasons and purpose in their job choices and won’t make each other choose even if they decide to pursue this.

“Hey,” Clint murmurs back, shifting closer. He doesn’t know what’s welcome but he hopes for the best as he shifts closer to rest his forehead against the other’s. “Sleep well?” He slept better than he had in a while. It’s been too long since Natasha had spent the night. She had once been the only one Clint could sleep peacefully near. Now it seems that Phil has been added to that very short list.

“Accidentally, but yes.” Phil rubs at one eye and Clint studies it while he has the chance. He visually traces the deep lines across Phil’s palm and the small scars and the rough patches of callous. He knows that what Phil does can be rough and warmth curls within him at the thought of being the one that draws his rugged Loner into port. The older man catches his eye and Clint knows he’s been caught.

He can’t even get away because with an experimental shift of his body he can feel the blankets tangled under and around him, whatever give is stopped by Phil’s body atop the bedding. Clint’s mind works as fast as it can to figure out how to escape this situation because as much as he wants to stay, he doesn’t want to reveal too much all of a sudden and scare the fisherman off.

The small smile is unexpected, but Phil cupping the side of his neck is even more so. Clint barely hides the initial twitch and goes very still under Phil’s hand. He doesn’t want to break whatever fragile thing they have between them. “I... need to start working on the _Triskelion._ ” He looks apologetic as he strokes his thumb along the underside of Clint’s jaw.

Clint swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple bobs visibly. “D’you want some help?” He really should cook dinner and get ready to head up to the watchroom but he doesn’t want to leave Phil’s side at the same time. They already spend so much time apart (and yeah, okay, he loves his alone time) that he’d rather spend what he can with Phil.

It’s an odd feeling after preferring to be on his own so much over the years. It’s not like he’s finally gotten over being alone all the time, but more like he’s found someone who meshes with him so perfectly that he still alone but not. He is no longer a solitary man but he isn’t crowded either. He has his other half or something equally mushy.

He can’t quite define it, but he’s sure that if he tried to outloud, Phil would understand him perfectly.

“I don’t have much to do, don’t let me interrupt your routine.” Yeah, he really would.

Clint smiles and nods slightly, still not moving from the bed. It’s not like he could if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to regardless. He’s perfectly content with soaking in the feeling of Phil laying close to him. Phil raises an eyebrow as if expecting Clint to be the first to move. He replies with a similarly raised brow.He gives an experimental wriggle to show that Phil is on top of the blankets.

Phil’s expression is clearly that of, “Oh. Uh...” and he looks almost sheepish as he carefully climbs off the bed.Clint untangles himself and climbs out of bed. From habit, he picks up and folds the quilt, ready to bring it upstairs.

“D’you have a lot you need to do tonight?” Clint asks as he leads the way out of his room and toward the kitchen. He looks out the window and guesses at the time from where the sun hangs in the sky. There has to be at least an hour or so of sunshine left.

“I have to assess the most damage and make a list of what needs to be done. From there, I’ll gauge what is the most pressing issues are and what equipment or materials are required.” Clint nods slowly and lets him know that he is more than welcome to any and all of Clint’s tools.

“I’ll get a start on dinner now. You c’mon up to the watchroom when you’re done.” He starts pulling out everything he’ll need to make the chowder and tries not to shiver too pleasurably under Phil’s warm gaze. It takes several minutes before the other man leaves, but when he does, Clint can feel the loss almost physically.

Ten minutes into making the dinner, he hears a crackle behind him from where he’d left the radio earlier. Clint turns toward it and eyes it sharply for a moment before returning to the fish he’s deboning. It crackles again and Clint almost laughs when he hears Phil talking to him. “Hey there, Hawkeye.”

He shakes his head with a chuckle and wipes his hands clean to carry the radio closer. He clips it into the neck of his shirt and tests to see if he can press the button of the microphone with his chin to keep it from getting slimy. “Hey, Loner. Run into some trouble?”

“No,” Phil’s quiet for a beat, then two, “I’ve just gotten used to talking to you as I assess the season’s damage.”

Clint grins and nods even though he knows that Phil can’t see him. “I don’t blame you.” He returns to plucking thin rib bones out of the fish meat as the fisherman gives him a report on the condition of his boat. He’s heard it before a few times over the seasons and by now he’s familiar with the terms that the older man uses, even if he doesn’t quite know what they mean. “Hey, Loner, I’ve an idea.”

A smile grows on his face as Phil hums and waits for Clint to elaborate. “How about a little friendly competition?” He chuckles at the sound of confusion over the radio speaker. “Tomorrow, show me how to remove the barnacles from your boat and we can have a competition of who can remove the most the fastest.”

“Without damaging the hull.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Specific.” Clint grins and tosses another bone into the trash. “Is that a yes?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it’s a yes?”

“It’s a maybe because you already have other responsibilities and I do not want to interrupt your daily routine.”

“Oh no,” Clint deadpans. “Natasha will finally have some time away from me. What could I possibly do to move on?”

“Okay, smartass.” Clint swears he can hear Phil holding back his laughter. “And if you remove any paint, you’re repainting the entire boat.”

Clint pauses and a slow smile starts to blossom over his face. “Won’t that delay you going back to sea?”

“Don’t. Even.” There is a low growl to that threat that makes Clint shudder pleasurably and he is pretty glad that the fisherman can’t see him do it. He’s not sure how the other would react but right now he’s sure that it’s too soon for the both of them. Clint can’t even remember the last time he’d held hands with someone (other than his Grump from when he was a little boy and that doesn’t count, either) let alone anything else.

“Okay, okay, no sabotagin’ your boat so I can hang out with you longer. Gotcha.”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“Really?”

“No. Not one bit.”

“Heartbreaker.” Clint finishes deboning the fish and moves onto the next step. “How many barnacles d’you think you have?”

“Enough that I felt the drag on my speed. I might just have to use a pressure washer for most of it. There are some large colonies adhered to my girl.”

“I assume you have one of those up your sleeve?” Clint’s sure he knows a guy who knows a guy who would probably have one but at the same time Phil is the kind of guy who would be prepared if the world ended tomorrow. That the man wouldn’t have his own tools (and back-up tools) is really unheard of.

“I own one, yes. I took a minor detour between selling fish and coming to visit to pick it up.”

Clint hums noncommittally and continues to cook and listen to Phil report what he needs to get done on the _Triskelion_. It’s calm and easy for them to talk like this. He lets the thick chowder simmer, stirring occasionally, as Phil mutters to himself as he checks the tools he had brought with him (two points to Clint for being right). The dialogue and sounds of tools clanking together is interspersed with staticky silence from when the microphone isn’t switched on.

“Phil?” He waits for the answering grunt. “The chowder’s done and I need to head up to the watchroom. I put a serving for you in the thermos. The rest is in the fridge.” Phil gives an affirmative and turns off his radio to save the batteries. Clint collects all his pieces and heads up into the Light. First thing to do is brew some coffee.

It doesn’t take him long to settle in. All the windows he has are cracked open just enough to allow the sounds of the sea to penetrate the watchroom without chilling it too much. Clint burrows into the blanket and makes a content noise as he nuzzles the soft blanket under his nose. Behind him, he hears heavy steps on the stairs. Clint turns toward him even though his eyes don’t stray from the stormy waters. The wind had begun to pick up.

When he does finally look away, he notes that Phil has grabbed a spare blanket to wrap around himself and his hair is mussed—probably from the wind. He cracks a smile and waits for Phil to notice his reflection in one of the windows. It takes only a few minutes before a desperate hand leaves the folds of the blanket to flatten his hair.

“Didja eat?” Clint asks, pulling out the logbook and writing down all the notations before mentioning that early catch had been sold (and that’d he’d bought some. He commented on the flavor before continuing) and that Phil was visiting. His question is met with a mildly long silence and by the time he turns to Phil to find out why, it’s laughable. Phil is quietly sipping his chowder from the cap of the thermos.

“It’s very good,” Phil murmurs after he swallows his mouthful. Clint grins at him and offers to pour him some coffee. The fisherman shakes his head. “Not this late at night, I need to get up early.”

Clint nods. “Getting up as I go to bed?” There is sometimes an hour or two of overlap, there will probably be more now that winter is coming and the daylight hours are much fewer.

“Earlier, probably.”

“If I can’t sleep,” of course Phil knows about Clint’s insomnia by now, “I can come down and help.” He looks over to the older man who looks a little skeptical. He knows it’s nothing personal, Phil is just very protective of his boat. (Another reason why Clint’s glad he has a private dock. It certainly helps Phil feel more at ease having his boat there.) “I can at least pass you tools.”

“We’ll see.” Phil takes another sip. “I’ll test your coordination before you can come too close.”

Clint groans, but he’s smiling. “Such a hardass.” Before he can say anything else, the radio crackles to life and Clint has to work. Phil is quiet beside him as Clint gets a report on the weather and sea conditions further out from Bucky.

"It's fucking freezing out here," the man grips as Clint laughs at him good-naturedly. "C'mon out and freeze your nuts off for me anytime, Hawkeye. Not like you're actually using them."

Before Clint can reply, Phil leaned over and takes the microphone out of his hand. "And how, exactly, do you know that, Barnes?"

Bucky splutters for a moment before replying, disbelief clear in his voice, "Coulson? What the fuck are you doing over there?"

Clint regains his voice to reply, "he's staying with me over his break." He's sure that the long silence is a mix between jealousy that Phil is already done for the season and shock that they're staying together.

"You told him there's only one bedroom, right?"

"Eh,  there's a cot in the watchroom and besides—"

Phil's hand covers Clint's mouth and Clint raises his eyebrows as the fisherman leans in to speak. "Which neither of us will be using. Good night, Barnes." He puts the microphone down as Bucky asks all kinds of half-garbled questions.

"There are gonna be so many rumors 'bout us now, y'know..." Clint mumbles, looking at the radio which Phil had just put out of reach.

"Let them speculate." He smiles and threads his fingers through Clint's. The Keep swears to himself that his nervous gulp was audible. He can't even find the words to respond. Phil looks as if he were about to speak again when he breaks into a giant yawn.

“You should sleep.” Clint squeezes Phil’s hand lightly and smiles at him. He can feel his heart beating thickly in his throat from just being allowed this. “You can have my bed, I won’t need it until the sun comes up.”

Phil watches him and looks almost reluctant. Slowly, carefully, he disentangles their fingers and stands. He moves his chair and Clint shifts to get comfortable in his impending loneliness. What he doesn’t expect is for Phil to grab the cot and drag it over to settle next to him. He raises an eyebrow as Phil tucks his shoes under the cot and curls up under the blankets. “Really?”

“Really.” He tucks the blankets up under his chin.

“Aren’t you a really light sleeper?” If anyone is out there tonight, he won’t exactly be able to be silent. Phil already has enough work to do on his time off, it’d be rude to interrupt his sleep too.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Phil—” his protest is cut short when the older man reaches out and takes his hand once more.

“Good night, Hawkeye.”

“Stubborn.” Phil hums and smiles. “’night, Loner.” Clint rubs his thumb lightly over Phil’s knuckles, feeling the wind-chapped and sun-abused skin. The movement is slow in even, measured strokes. It’s like meditation of a sorts. Inhale, stroke thumb starboard. Exhale, stroke thumb port. Clint almost laughs at himself for using some of the limited ship vocabulary he’d picked up from hearing Coulson talk. He’d known, in theory, what it was growing up but he’d always gotten them mixed up until his Loner had explained the difference (along with a lot of other terms that Clint can’t even think of at the moment).

It’s a quiet, clear night. The only sounds that reach them are the lapping waves and the breeze teasing Clint’s neighbor’s wind chimes. The only clouds in the sky are the wisps of cirrus clouds echoing the last of the dying light from when the sun had set. They’re a shockingly bright indigo compared to the inky blue-black of the sky. It’s nights like these that Clint wishes he knew how to paint.

Phil’s fingers twitch against his and the warmth and fondness that wells up in Clint’s chest nearly chokes him. He hadn’t expected it and although it’s far from unpleasant he doesn’t really know what to do with himself. Some silly part of him suggests that he lean down and lightly kiss the sleep-smoothed forehead. It’s very tempting except for the high likelihood that he would get caught out. If he’s completely honest with himself, and sometimes he is, he can admit that just being here with Phil beside him is good enough and he won’t dare ruin his chance.

Eventually he manages to tear his attention away from Phil for more than five minutes to keep a watchful eye on the seas. Nothing happens all night as he keeps a lookout, and no one contacts him over the radio. Clint can barely keep his eyes open as the first strains of sunlight peak over the horizon. He’s never been able to relax enough to feel this tired in a while.

Each blink becomes slower and slower until it takes more time for them to open again rather than close. He can feel but can’t stop his head from falling forward when his hand it lightly tugged. His eyes snap open as best they can and he looks down at Phil.

“C’mere,” Phil’s voice is soft and rough with sleep. It’s the loveliest and most appetizing voice Clint’s ever heard and if he was a little less awake he might even tell Phil that. Instead, he silently complies. He doesn’t so much stand as he melts onto his knees next to the cot and flops over Phil. He’s rewarded with a sleepy chuckle and insistent tugging on his person.

“What’re y—?”

“Get in bed with me.” That wakes Clint up a little.

“Won’t fit, an’ if we do, we’ll rip the canvas.” The cot wasn’t much more than some steel pipes and canvas anyway. Phil raises an eyebrow at him and Clint forces his brain to work. “But ‘m done for the night. Could go use my bed?” The brightening expression is almost enough for Clint to say ‘fuck everything’ and kiss him stupid. But he won’t. He was just given the offer of snuggling and that is precious and to be valued because Phil and he? They? Them? They didn’t do stuff like this. This is strictly anti-loner behavior and therefore something to be cherished with everything Clint has.

He leads the way down the circular stairway, his quilt somehow wrapped around both their shoulders and never falling. Phil crawls into his bed first and looks at Clint expectantly. The Keep yawns—it was supposed to be a laugh—and carefully spreads the quilt over Phil before crawling in next to him.

It’s all too natural to settle down in the safe circle of Phil’s arms. It’s like habit, except that this is his first time doing so, to curl a leg around Phil’s as an arm wraps around his waist. Almost like they’ve been doing this for months, or years, they settle together. They don’t even take up all of Clint’s bed.

“See, we could have fit on the cot,” Phil murmurs into Clint’s hair.

“My ass woulda been hanging off one side, Loner.” Clint mumbles into the man’s neck. He smiles when Phil makes a noise that sounds very much like a huff.

“Fine then, we’d fit on my bunk.” Clint jolts a little at the mention of that, suddenly remembering Phil’s _Triskelion_ and how he needs to start working on her right away, possibly now.

“Don’t ya need to—” Phil shushes him and shakes his head slowly.

“It can wait, Clint.” He’s hesitant regardless of how calm and sincere Phil looks. He’s about to protest that he won’t really be able to sleep much anyway and that him staying here is really a waste of daylight when Phil continued to speak, “I’ll keep watch.”

That hit him hard and deep. The knowledge that Phil _understood_ and understood _Clint_ to a level like that after so little time they’d spent actually together; Clint nearly lost all will to protest from sheer awe at this man. He should fight back and insist that Phil go about his post-season duties. Really, he should. “Are you s—”

Phil nods and smiles as Clint chews on his lower lip and burrows into his chest, his grip tightening on him.

“It can wait.” 


End file.
